


Head Above Water

by RhetoricFemme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Falling In Love, Grad School AU, Growing Up, Heart Attack, Jean Kirschstein - Freeform, M/M, Marco Bodt - Freeform, Mention of Death, artist!jean, cruise ship au, hitch dreyse - Freeform, jeanmarco, polyglot!marco, reiner braun - Freeform, spoilers for chapter 63 of the manga, teacher!jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jean boards the Queen Rose as a favor to his family, he's looking for nothing more than a chance to get some work done. What he finds instead is so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Above Water

**Author's Note:**

> H'okay! So, I wrote the bulk of this last November, whilst on a family reunion cruise with my husband's family. Thing is, is Hubs got deployed and couldn't go; leaving me on a cruise ship with finals to study for and a head full of JeanMarco inspiration. I'm finally getting around to cleaning this up and posting it, and I hope you like it!
> 
> Also--I'd deeply appreciate any comments you could leave for this story. Constructive criticism or just to say Hi. Thank you so much! <3

It’d been easy enough at first, pretending not to notice him. After all, time was of the essence, with no room for consideration of absurdly handsome men his age. Summer was far from over, but the condensed semester nearly _was._ Toting around his own academic load, Jean had started to wonder whether or not he’d even get a chance to look over materials related to his upcoming teacher assistantship. It was his first crack at grading essays and writing syllabi, a task at which he’d wanted to take his time. Sadly, this was not something his mother had taken into account when booking the two of them for a twelve day cruise alongside his aunt and cousin.

He’d stared incredulously at her at the time, but would ultimately be lying to say that finishing his schoolwork with an Atlantic breeze at his back was something to complain about.

It had been a season rife with overwhelming newness for Jean’s small, close knit family. Since winter, both the Kierschstein and Dreyse sides of Jean’s family found themselves wading through grief as his uncle had succumbed to a heart attack. Fresh waves of sorrow now marked their family, but also tore open still delicate pain from Jean’s own father having passed only five years prior.

No one need remind Jean of the rough patches growing up, where his uncle had stepped up for him. Possessing tremendous empathy and tact, the man never attempted to replace his father, but always made good on an unspoken promise to tread that path when Jean needed it. It often came down to Jean wanting that touch of paternal affection, and needing the direction that came with it, though it was never easy to find the words to ask for himself. And so, while his aunt and mother took solace with each other, Jean did some stepping up of his own, managing as much of the painful details he and his mother could reasonably pry from his aunt’s grief-trembling hands.

Shoving the useless aspects of his hectic bachelor life aside, he found additional space and time for his cousin Hitch. Already a preteen when Hitch was born, she and Jean had always been close, although their relationship had admittedly changed as she reached the onset of puberty. Or as Jean referred to it, “A Time of Self-Entitlement and Budding, but You’re Still A Little Girl” syndrome.

Alas. In the names of those he loved, Jean martyred himself to Hitch’s flippant ways and genetically-sharp tongue.  It was simple: Hitch needed a punching bag who could occasionally bite back, and Jean had nothing better to do. Something in the way his mother and aunt smiled made it worth it, even if no one else could quite see it.

At the end of the day, it didn’t matter who took care of what. They were four people balancing life’s myriad complications in while putting on as much of a smile for each other as they could manage. Regardless of this cruise coinciding with the moment he chose to delve into grad school, Jean deemed it better to shut his mouth, embark the Queen Rose, and try to have a good time.

Even Jean had to admit that ultimately, his problems weren’t necessarily Problems, and that he could afford the stress entailed in trailing his cousin from one end of the enormous boat to the other. As for his school work, while drawing out maps to Caribbean dance music felt a tad surreal, it was a lax enough environment for Jean to concede that change could be good.

As he would find out, part of that change would come to involve the suspected quirks of a particular member of the Queen Rose’s crew.

By three days at sea, Jean could be counted on to appear in the same place each afternoon, a fact for which most crewmembers could say the same, though Jean was accounting for only one. It was the same one who for the past three days had maintained entertainment atop the pool deck; setting up for live performances, riling the crowds up for the exuberant, ponytailed Zumba instructor, and commandeering the deck’s playlist in between.

Now, three days into their voyage, peering up from his sketch pad, Jean observed the finishing touches of the afternoon’s on-deck festivities. Always claiming the same table just far enough from poolside, Jean watched as for reasons unknown to him, people seemed to delight in volunteering to embarrass themselves on the ship’s entertainment stage. He watched as the crewmate whose nametag read Marco raised winners’ hands toward the sky before shuffling them back onto the deck.

The guy’s electric blue polo was nearly as blinding as the sun, though it did nothing to deter Jean from noticing how his tanned skin complimented his easy personality. Itcertainly must have had a hand in making that face full of freckles pop as brilliantly as they did.

It’d been easy enough at first for Jean to dismiss this all too attractive person, who he’d first noticed at the onset of the cruise while translating the captain’s instructions into Spanish for an appreciative set of passengers. Noisy as the place was, Jean could swear he’d heard the crewmate’s voice later that day, announcing greetings and instructions in one language after another across the ship-wide intercom.

If nothing else, he’d mused, he would come away from this trip with the memory of having crossed paths with a gorgeous polyglot.

While Jean couldn’t fault himself for noticing Marco to start with, he most certainly blamed himself for the fruitless crush he’d conceded to after receiving a proper introduction.  He could think of countless other places to finish his work, places that were bound to be more conducive to productivity, and yet he found himself sitting at the same table from one afternoon to the next. And then, maybe it was Jean’s fault for allowing his expression to twist in annoyance at what in one moment had merely been some song with too much horn and cliché lyrics—an expression that Marco just happened to catch.

Alas. Now it had become _that song_ ; the sort whose singer and beat were guaranteed to outstay their welcome whilst rattling around in Jean’s head. Three days in, it had officially become a thing of sorts, where Marco threw the song into the mix at least twice each afternoon.

Chewing on his pen, Jean slid his sunglasses from atop his head and over his eyes, throwing Marco a polite nod as the song began its first rotation of the day. An inconceivable measure of cuteness radiated toward him, as Marco’s return wave seemed to contain a calibrated amount of obnoxiousness for his actions, and then he was on his way.

There had barely been enough time for Jean to bat Marco’s cute gesture away before noticing the new arrival of unwanted company. Taking up the deck chair alongside of him, a brunet 20-something smiled at Jean, who couldn’t decide whether to first criticize his invasion of space or the heavily gelled fauxhawk the guy wore. Regardless, it takes Jean all of a second to confirm to himself that he’s already done with the kid.

“Hey there.”

“’Sup.”

Much to Jean’s dismay, Gelhawk emanates an unfortunate combination of tanning oil and Axe, and leaning close, nods toward the professional grade sketch pad resting across Jean’s lap.

“So, are you a cartographer?” he asks, clearly proud of his twenty-five-cent word.

“Uh. No. This is for school.”

The guy feigns being overly impressed, therein leaving Jean thoroughly under impressed.

“Seriously? It’s amazing! So then, this must be…”

“It’s just a color coded map for the Battle of Trost.”

“Oh! Okay, yeah.” Bringing his face closer, it’s no longer clear to Jean if he’s being hit on, or if this guy merely has a serious lapse in judgment about personal space. “So, the colors represent—“

“Green lines track movements made by Erwin Smith, yellow tracks Hange Zoe, and—“

“So blue must be Darius Zackly!”

“Levi Ackerman.”

“No way.”

“I shit you not.”

“He went rogue though, right? Zackly was the one who brought up charges against the false royal family and punished them.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

The guy takes a deep breath before starting in on his own version of events. Apparently, he’s keen to wax poetic on the bravado and accomplishments of Darius Zackly, and if nothing else Jean is merely hearing a rehash of the same old one-sided tripe in someone else’s voice. Perhaps it’s the Caribbean heat, but Jean swears he can see his patience being swallowed up in the ridiculously wet air, therein deciding he has no time left for someone who apparently swears by a middle school text book.

“Actually,” Jean can already taste the pleasure in cutting him off. “You’re not wrong about Zackly being responsible for calling those hard decisions. But I wouldn’t call him Old Guts and Glory, either.”

“Hm?”

“He wasn’t much for the front lines. Or fighting at all, really. But did you know that he made a royal official eat his own shit?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s true.”

“Seriously? That has to be made up. How do you force someone to—“

“ _Mm_ , that’s not really good lunchtime conversation. Read something by Langnar or Isayama if you really want to know how that whole shitstorm went down. ‘Scuse the expression.”

Having clearly upset the guy, Jean bites his tongue around his impending smile and goes on while sweeping together his belongings.

“You ever heard of Ghengis Khan?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he once poured molten gold down some dude’s throat. He took the straight-forward approach.” Jean makes a funneling motion toward his mouth to demonstrate. “And honestly, as far as strategies go? I’m not sure if Khan or Zackly should get the medal for batshit crazy tactics.”

Having left his company momentarily speechless, Jean turns up one corner of his mouth, immensely satisfied. Gathering his supplies into his arms, he offers the guy a saccharine farewell, while meeting Marco’s curious expression from the deck’s center platform.

\--

If only lousy cruise music had been the inception of their exchange, perhaps Jean could have kept himself from the regret he felt after ducking out on that afternoon’s low-level flirt session. Alas. He had made Marco’s acquaintance the first evening aboard the Queen Rose, and had been hard pressed to get the polo-collared crewmate out of his mind since then.

\--

_At this point, there was no telling where she had gone. Evening had descended, leaving the entertainment deck swathed in glowsticks and a starlit sky above. Sifting through the crowd seemed fruitless, and Jean was left with undesirable conversations running through his head._

_“Sorry Aunt Riza. You try looking for a thirteen year old in the middle of all that neon and incessantly twirling excuses for skirts.”_

_In the end, his anxiety was finally put to rest by an excited, youthful call of his name. At the center of the strobe-lit deck stood his cousin, who with the help of a crew mate had seemingly mastered what everyone around her struggled to do._

_“Jean! Watch me!”_

_Making space alongside his annoyance and relief, Jean found room to be impressed as she tossed a Chinese yo-yo high into the air. Giggling, she turned to the man beside her, nodding as he whispered into her ear. Throwing the yo-yo one more time, she stepped aside as he caught it mid-air with a set of sticks matching her own._

_“Jean! Marco taught me how to use a Chinese yo-yo!”_

_“Cool, Hitch, seriously. Tell me before you run off next time, though.”_

_“Whatever. I’m old enough to mind my own business.”_

_“Right.” Decidedly ignoring her for the moment, Jean turns his attention toward who he now knows to be Marco, and offers him a handshake. “Thanks for staying with her, dude. I’m sure I’m not the only moron just leaving kids lying around for you guys to chase after.”_

_Marco offers a firm grip, easing up as he replies, but Jean notices, taking his time to let go._

_“No worries.” He smiles. “And actually, she might have wandered off, but since Hitch came up here she’s had her eye on you the whole time.”_

_Raising an eyebrow at her, Jean takes her apathetic shrug in stride. Truth be told, he can’t imagine that he would have behaved much different at her age, and decides to let the issue go. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he gives Marco more thanks before suggesting to Hitch they go find a sugar high off chocolate crepes._

_It’s not that Jean wants to walk away from Marco. It’s more the fact that if he stands there much longer he’ll be left without anything of merit to say to the guy who managed to charm not one, but both difficult-to-please Kirschstein-Dreyse cousins. The tingling in his hand aside, Jean prefers time to process whatever it is that means._

\--

On the fifth day, they make port in Jamaica, and the overwhelming disembarkation of passengers makes for an especially slow day aboard the Queen Rose. While the majority of her passengers have gone afoot in search of a local experience and exotic souvenirs, Jean is busying himself with the hunt for the blandest food he can find. Having left a sick and sleeping Hitch alone in their cabin, he also finds himself making haste to complete certain non-trivial tasks at hand.

Five days into this adventure at sea, Jean has thrown discretion to the wayside as he searches for Marco on his way toward the cafe. He easily justifies his hunt by calling it taking the long way around. Still, it makes for a relatively short excursion as he knows to make straightaway for the raised platform at the center of the pool and entertainment deck.

Giving a short wave, Jean catches Marco’s attention as he finishes winding a length of cable around his forearm. Marco greets him in kind with a nod of his head; the unintentionally cute gesture only serving to bring Jean’s mood another notch lower.

“Hey.”

Marco smiles big at the sight of Jean, clearly not expecting to see him for at least another couple of hours.

“Hey, there. Getting a head start on maps?”

“Actually, I just came by to tell you not to bother playing that shitty song today. Hitch is sick, and someone’s got to stay with her in the cabin, so…”

“Aw. Seasick?”

“So far, three barf bags worth. I told her to stay hydrated, but you can’t tell her anything.”

“Uh huh.” Marco teases Jean in both word and smile. “But you love her. I bet she asked you to stay with her.”

Truth be told, Hitch hadn’t needed to. Jean had woken early to the sound of tears and dry heaving from what could only be described as a sick and pride-wounded little girl. He’d dismissed his aunt early in the day, assuring her that he wouldn’t be going anywhere, while pushing her and his mother to enjoy their time off the boat.

Neither does Jean challenge Marco, though he does cross his arms in front of himself defiantly, as though it might help him to save face. “Hitch might be a little shithead, but she’s kind of my little shithead. You know?”

“That’s sweet.”

“Yeah. Not really.”

Marco just laughs while doing a commendable job of masking his disappointment behind sincere understanding, and he nods as Jean bids him goodbye for the afternoon.

\--

The day passes by, wherein Hitch finds solace in their cabin with the air turned high and blinds drawn tightly closed. Jean’s fingers card softly through her hair, and pirated episodes of some cartoon called Ren ‘n Stimpy stream across his laptop. The gentle lull of the ship is no longer a bother, and it’s been hours since she’s last thrown up, though food is still a far off concept to her tired mind.

A quiet knock pulls the two of them out of their stupor, leaving Jean to wonder if not their key-wielding mothers, who might be at the door. He swallows down the faint taste of copper in his mouth when he finds Marco, food in hand, on the other side.

“How did— _Is that?_ Why are you—Dude.”

If it weren’t enough to find Tall Freckled and Handsome at their doorstep, the fact that he’d come bearing not just chicken broth, but an omelet might have tripped Jean’s wires for good.

 _Fucking omelet. Marco, what_ are _you?_

“Marco!!! Ooph.” Hitch rises too quick and too soon, then slumps back into her pillows with a smile on her face while reaching with hungry hands. “Nevermind. You come to me.”

“Hitch.” Jean admonishes.

“Hi there.” _Dammit, Marco_. _That voice_.

“Hi.”

“I found broth for your sick girl. Who mentioned the other night that you have a weird thing for omelets?” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, quickly handing the food off and stuffing his no-longer-busy hands into the pockets of his shorts. “So, uh, here you go.”

A hint of cheese drips from the omelet at its seam as the wafting scent of mushrooms and peppers invade Jean’s nose. There’s a ketchup drawing of their ship over top of the omelet, and all he can think about is that this gesture has likely cost Marco both his personal time and possibly some favors along the way.

Too stunned to try on gratitude, Jean moves to the side and makes room for Marco to enter the confines of his and Hitch’s cabin. Taking the food offered him, he watches dumbly as Marco gently sits the broth on a bedside table and implores Hitch as to how she’s doing. Before long he’s wishing her well, then turning around to offer Jean his second goodbye of the day.

“Hang on.” Jean stops short of halting his palm right in front of Marco’s chest. “How did you know—“

“Your cabin number?” His voice is confident, while his features betray an inhibition that until now has gone unnoticed.

“Exactly.”

“I checked you into your dinner reservation the other night, remember? Which automatically books under the reservationist’s cabin number. Way to treat the ladies in your life, by the way.”

Altogether confused and flattered, Jean simply offers him a shrug.

“You didn’t have to do all that.”

This time it’s Marco who shrugs. “Not much else to do. We’re at port, and the boat’s practically empty. And I wanted to.”

 _He wanted to._ “Thanks.”

“What are you up to tonight?”

The words come fast enough for Jean to question if he’d honestly heard them at all. He takes the blush creeping across Marco’s cheeks and the obnoxious grin on Hitch’s face as confirmation that he may have just been put on the spot for a date.

“Um, I guess it depends?”

“Marco.” Hitch cuts in. “He’s spent five days on this ship doing nothing but hang out with me or coloring. Take him.”

“The fuck...”

“It’s nothing special.” Shyness creeps into Marco’s voice, and something inside Jean lilts at having put it there. “I just thought you might—“

“When?” If Jean does nothing else to indulge himself on this trip, he decides, it will be finding legitimate opportunities to stare at Marco, who at this very moment is smiling right at him.

“I’m done at eight. Come up to the pool deck a little after?”

“Sure.” No longer able to help himself, Jean smiles back at the overly generous crew member, who despite his seemingly extroverted qualities has spent the last half minute creeping further out of the cabin door. Marco offers Jean and Hitch a wave goodbye before shutting it quietly behind him.

The two cousins stare at one another in a moment of awe and silence. Jean bites his tongue around his still growing smile, while Hitch giggles and pokes at him.

“Jean has a boyfriend!”

“Shut up, Hitch. And why the hell were you talking to him about me? And when? And why omelets?”

“Whatever.” She dismisses him, pulling the lid off the Styrofoam cup to inspect her broth. “Anything past 7:59, and you’re late.”

Falling back onto the bed, Jean debates whether or not he should eat the omelet or continue to stare at it.

\--

By the time quarter to eight rolls around, Jean is halfway to a migraine as he tries to figure out what it is Marco wants, whether it was really alright to leave Hitch to hang with her mother, and if the button down he’s wearing will end up being alright.

Jean takes the stairs from his cabin to the pool deck, past swimming pools, outdoor movies, and other various late night attractions until he reaches the fourteenth floor. He takes the stairs two at a time in an effort to burn off some of his nervous energy, the vibrant sounds of dance music and people enjoying themselves throbbing at him all along the way.

The doors to the deck slide open, sending a turbulent breeze at him as the ship begins to pick up speed en route for their next port of call. Instinct tells Jean to head for the center of the deck, where sure as anything, he finds Marco waiting not in his typical electric blue and white polo, but a plain white tee over khaki shorts that accentuate all the right places.

Jean clears his throat to make himself known, in the process earning a smile and all of Marco’s attention.

“So you wanna go to a real party?”

It takes Jean a moment to blink and clear his mind before he can properly shake his head at his date.

“Did you invite me to the top of this ship and then quote Titanic at me?”

“Maybe.”

“No. Just… No. I‘ll be damned if I make room for you on the door.”

 A small dimple declares itself when Marco smirks back at him, and Jean decides the cheesy sense of humor and small piece of attitude look exceptional on him.

“Anyway,” Marco corrects, “this isn’t the top deck.” Motioning upward, he directs Jean toward an elevator leading to a smaller, cylindrical deck near the center of the ship. Strands of white lights descend toward lesser heights, strategically drawing passenger’s attention upward and into the starlit sky above their eyes. It’s easily the highest point on the vessel, making it a curious thing that tonight it seems for the most part empty.

“What’s up there?”

“VIP lounge for people with too much money or employee key cards.”

“Nice.”

Marco smiles whilst nodding toward the elevator. “It is.”

The ride up is brief, and before Jean knows it Marco is leading him forward, one hand guiding him at the small of his back toward a table on the furthest end of the deck. Marco nods for Jean to claim the spot as he diverts and heads for an open bar along the way.

“Another perk of this deck,” Marco shares while setting two beers on the table, “is that it’s the only place on the ship where you don’t pay for alcohol.”

“So is this where all the late night employee raves happen, then?”

“Not every night.” His voice goes up an octave, his expression sifting through what Jean interprets to be previous evenings aboard the VIP deck.

“Uh huh.”

“But not any night, really.” Marco admits. “There’s so much to take care of during the day that most employees prefer to use leftover energy doing whatever it is they like to do.”

“And what do _you_ like to do?”

“I hang out with a few people. Mainly I just walk around or read. Have you seen that there’s actually a library on the ship?”

The mention of a library gets Jean’s attention, who has spent the first half of his trip maintaining a rather plain and particular schedule. At the moment, however, he’s got other matters on his mind. “Rain check on the library, I totally want to know about that. But what about those few other people? Co-workers?”

Marco bows his head with a touch of humility, realizing where Jean is headed, and deems it a fair question.

“Friends. Co-workers. I’ve been on the Queen Rose for almost a year now, so at this point they’re the same to me. But to answer the question I _think_ you’re asking: I’ve never asked out a passenger before. Or another employee.”

“Ah.” Jean hides his burgeoning smile behind a long pull off his beer.

“Yeah.”

There comes an impasse, wherein Jean no longer knows whether to feel relieved, flattered, or awkward. He settles on all three, but what the hell. Not tonight. He can’t help but dissolve into laughter as he shirks off that old feeling of self-deprecation, because he’s a grown man, dammit. It’s enough to allow himself to return the gaze Marco has trained right at him.

Curiosity and mirth run rampant in Marco’s eyes, dark enough that they remind Jean of espresso. More than ever, Jean is thankful to have looked. He gets the idea that if the expression on Marco’s face is anything akin to the way he currently feels (and he believes it is), that the feeling runs mutual. However long this goes for, Jean already understands that there’s no chance of turning back.

Evening presses on. Drinks gradually come and go, and their chairs move closer together as the deck picks up a chill from a sea breeze commandeering the midnight air. They come to realize they’re both East coast boys, Marco hailing from the cold shores of Maine, and the eldest of five in a Greek Orthodox family. Marco tells Jean about his time at sea; a yearlong opportunity to gain some insight after spending his undergraduate studying linguistics at some private college upstate. Separating himself from the tightknit comfort of his family has been no small feat, he admits, but it’s been good for him.

He explains it to Jean as he had to his father: a year on the Queen Rose seemed less about impulse and more about yielding to the great unknown. If there is one thing Marco isn’t interested in, it’s entertaining the idea of what-ifs somewhere down the road. Marco could do no better than to say it was simply something he had to do, and was relieved to find it was enough to see him through as he figured out his next step in life.

Fully enveloped, Jean gives Marco all of his attention, and nods vigorously as Marco tells him about his next move being a stint in graduate school for speech therapy, and if the spirit moves him, maybe even a phD. For Marco, it appears all he’d required was a year at sea to find satisfaction in staring down his own infinite abyss.

Right now, though, the only thing he seems more eager for than home is to prod Jean for his own life story instead of further detailing his own.

He’s the last stock of an academic legacy from rural Connecticut; part of a family that routinely sends its descendants to none other than Harvard. That’s not to say he isn’t academically deserving. Jean is. On the whole, it’s a fact of life Jean is proud of, though he believes he’d be happier if his father and Uncle Kenny could still be alive.

As it stands, his is a birthright which Jean tries to simultaneously fulfil and leave behind him every chance he gets. Where his father and grandfather can be found within the source pages of several of his own text books, Jean prefers to remember them for the fireside bedtime stories of his youth. What he inevitably finds instead are the quirked eyebrows of staff or faculty when he confirms that yes, he comes from _that_ line of Kirschsteins. Whether any specific inquisition is met with fondness or ire is anybody’s guess.

Jean’s admittedly interested in hearing his own professors impressions of their time in Otto Kirschstein’s lecture comparing military weapons throughout history, or what his dad was like as a young and sought after thing back in 1982. Absolutely. What he doesn’t ask for and occasionally gets regardless, is the judgement and expectation that follows him while he wishes for nothing more than to be looked at and graded by his own merits.

His words taste bitter even to Marco, when he admits that the pride he feels in entering academia, in contributing his own branch to this tree whose roots thrive from his own blood, is occasionally diminished under the scrutiny of from various people holding extreme opinions either for or against him.

Staring down the neck of his bottle, Jean scrunches his nose in apology before steering the conversation into lighter fare. But first, he can’t help but top off the matter with a smile, and tells Marco about how satisfying it is to create maps based off of information gathered by the men preceding him in their family. The comment is a bit more sentimental than Jean prefers, and he quickly shifts the focus back onto his date. Marco teases him for his townie roots, but can’t help but admire Jean’s self-confessed urge to live quietly and go about his business as simply as possible.

They move away from talk of the future, instead picking at each other’s pasts and interests. Jean is so taken by their back and forth, by the uncanny little connections, and the way their words segue out of polite exchange and into seamless banter, that he barely hears the words coming out of his own mouth. He’s so caught up in riding this incomparable wavelength, that he misses the particular gleam that catches Marco’s eye whenever he brings up Harvard or the impending school year ahead of him. What Jean sees instead is the inexhaustible light in front of him, and interprets it as encouragement to keep his date talking.

It’s an interesting kind of conflict when Marco glances at his watch as the end to their evening draws near. While it means an end to their date—the date Marco asked _him_ out on—it also means he’ll be closer to an afternoon of making eyes at Marco from the pool deck, which isn’t so bad, either.

Ultimately, the crew makes the decision for them as lights begin to flicker off, and the bar is being wiped down by some buzzcut with a rather indiscreet smile dancing across his face.

Jean can’t help but frown. “Looks like it’s time to move.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Marco rubs at the back of his neck, and Jean’s relieved to see at least a touch of disappointment in that sheepish half-grin. “Actually, I have to be up early, too.”

“Mm.” Standing up, Jean’s hands retreat awkwardly to his pockets as he maintains Marco’s stride toward the cylindrical elevator. Hours have passed since they rode to the top of the ship, the elevator having gone dark since then.

On the way to Jean’s cabin, he learns that Marco lives on a crew deck on one of the Queen Rose’s lower levels. He shares the tiny, twelve-by-twelve cabin with a guy named Bert, whose quiet nature is made all the more remarkable by the fact that he is six-foot-five and Marco hasn’t heard him complain once about the dimensions of their living quarters.

“So is living on this ship kind of like being around all that family?”

Marco laughs, offering a one-shouldered shrug. “Sometimes? I don’t mind how loud this job is, or how crowded it can get. On the ship, though, it’s easier to not apologize for wanting to be alone.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve got way more patience or tact than me.”

“What makes you say that?”

An indecisive noise gets stuck in Jean’s throat, and he runs a reluctant hand through his hair. There should be no reason for wanting to clue Marco into what he considers to be his less than desirable traits.

But then, right now it seems of importance, as though it were a litmus test of sorts, so Jean speaks. “The limit for how much bullshit I can take is a very, very finite thing.”

“Like that guy on deck the other day?”

“Aw, for fuck sake. You saw that.”

“You mean the guy trying to hit on you? It was cute.”

“I think I broke him.”

Marco raises an eyebrow, inviting Jean to tell him more.

“It was pretty obvious that nothing short of being rude was going to get it through his head, so I just ran my mouth too much. I just wanted to get my work done, is all.”

“Mm. I get it.”

“Do you, now?”

“Sure.” Jean’s skepticism is more than apparent, given everything Marco has told him about what is essentially living at the eye of a big fat Greek storm year-round. “Maybe, just _maybe_ I don’t want to always talk to everyone, but I’m just that good at it.”

“Yeah? I think you’ve got everyone on this ship fooled, then.”

“Whatever.” Marco grins while bumping gently into Jean’s shoulder.

Floor by floor, they’re making their way closer to Jean’s cabin. The further they get from the entertainment deck, the fewer passengers they run into, and Marco takes the opportunity to move closer to Jean.

“I’m less interested in being at the center of attention,” he admits, “but know how to make it work for this job. I’m one of two boys in an extended family mostly full of girls. It’s normal for me.”

“Fair enough.”

The conversation dwindles peacefully, and they move in relaxed silence. By the time they make it to the eighth floor, the corridor is still enough for Jean to hear blood rushing through his ears while the rest of him begs to know what happens next. He stares at Marco’s waist, where his hands now sit, and all Jean can think about is how he’s spent the past week watching those same hands go from directing people in confidence, to wringing nervously at the idea of having Jean in his company, to resting at his back whilst guiding him from one point on the deck to another. It’s only inevitable, he tells himself, to be curious as to what else Marco’s hands are capable of.

“S’just us, now.” Marco moves carefully, giving Jean an opportunity to change course if he wants to. It’s rather difficult to contain his pleasure, however, when Jean allows Marco to not simply close the distance between them, but to do so by backing him against the wall.

Jean sighs serenely, allowing the wall to hold him steady while he looks Marco unblinkingly in the eyes.

“Felt that way all night, though. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

At this point, neither of them is clear on what expectations lay beyond this space. Whether they are meant to savor this one night, or if the idea of _them_ can also disembark the Queen Rose.

Jean questions none of it, however, as Marco leans into him. It’s beyond appropriate that Marco tastes the way the sea smells. Pressing closer, his weight stokes a feeling Jean has long since felt move inside of him. He knows later he’ll be asking himself if his most passionate moments could ever hold up against this kindling made up of the way their mouths move over one another.

If he dare put a word to the fingers now pressing into the small of his back, the light sweep of air across his neck from where Marco is _inhaling_ him, Jean would call it kismet.

Hooking his fingers into Marco’s belt loops, Jean leaves nothing between them while his mind campaigns heaven to cease all of time.

\--

By the time Jean rises the next morning, he’s sporting an almost too-wide-for-him grin, which is only diminished by the occasional reminder that he’s operating on a singular number of days left at sea.

Summer love is a new concept to him. Not that he’s calling what he feels love, per se, so much as he’s making use of an old worn-in phrase. That’s not to say a man like Marco doesn’t merit Jean’s love. If  anyone deserves it, Jean figures, surely Marco does.

Semantics aside, Jean spends the remainder of his five days at sea scouting opportunities to brush knuckles with Marco, whose on-deck charm remains uninhibited when he stands in front of the masses, and is all but replaced by a sweeter, more demure allure whenever they steal time alone. Comparing the many facets of Marco becomes a sort of game for Jean, as he finishes routing battles and excursions of the past, and now allots time to observe Marco whilst drafting what he plans on being the first of countless course syllabi throughout his still-infant career.

Evenings have become a time for impatient hands and relaxed exploration. Inevitably, nighttime brings a certain level of activity to the Queen Rose, and it’s not difficult to blend in with other passengers when they find choice moments and places to better learn the feel of one another. However, time is of the essence, and Marco is on point when he brings Jean into the quiet of the library.

As unlikely as Jean is to admit it, the concept of midnight in the stacks is auspiciously romantic, and he bites his tongue to suppress a grin as he peers into some random volume while engaging Marco in a game of hard-to-get.  It’s all fine by Marco, who uses the opportunity to figure out what exactly Jean likes. There’s a certain satisfaction to be had in pulling them out of the stacks, his hands resting firmly on Jean’s waist as he leads their bodies toward an old, decadent looking armchair. He takes note of how easy it is to chip at Jean’s resolve, notices how Jean’s weight settles nicely in his lap, and how his breath at the back of Jean’s neck seems to increasingly dissolve any feigned interest he once held for his book.

Marco pries the tome away from Jean, easily coming between the book and the white-knuckled grip of his ink-smudged fingers. “Anything good in there?”

“Mm. I wouldn’t know.”

“No?”

“Nope.” He nestles into the crook of Marco’s neck before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Seems some goof doesn’t want me to read.”

“Mm.” Marco doesn’t suppress his laugh when his ghosted breath earns him a childish scowl. “There’s all the time in the world for books.” He promises. “So for now, pay attention to _me_.”

It’s tough for Jean to argue with someone who’s proven himself able to amp his hormones from zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds. That’s not to say Jean is looking to start a fight. Instead, he pours his energy into committing this night—the room, the smell, the taste, the man—to memory. There is no guile between the two of them, and Marco quickly drops any pretense of wooing his date, as he is seemingly as anxious to ingrain the moment as Jean is.

More than ever, it is understood that time is a precious commodity, with very little of it to squander. There are silent conversations waiting to be had; hands itching to press and move against flesh yet unknown, mouths thirsty to compare the taste of one place against another.

No one notices when words fall to the wayside. Nor do they hear the soft thud of Jean’s book sliding onto the floor.

\--

 

By the Queen Rose’s final day at sea, it’s become difficult to know whether the truth of this temporary reality has been forgotten, or if the two of them are electing to ignore the facts altogether.

On this last night, they find privacy huddled on the back of the entertainment deck, the one a.m. chill a nonissue as they move to create their own warmth. Marco’s hand slides beneath the pullover he’s loaned Jean, whose fingers are laced behind Marco’s neck whilst he lays kisses across patches of sun-drawn freckles.

Marco’s own comforter acts a buffer between them and the hardness of the deck on which they lay, and it’s a sliver of a chance for Jean to grasp what being with Marco at length might be like. Instead, he sighs into another kiss, knowing what it is his senses will never be able to take for granted.

They’ve learned to move in time with one another, and now try their luck at pushing forward, acknowledging that their mutual want is no longer a sufficient resting place. There’s a comfort here that cannot be explained, but still neither of them vocalizes a need for anything beyond what the other is already giving.

Hours pass this way, tangled in one another, and the silence of the evening only punctuated by the occasional talk of what lies ahead. It’s near painful broaching the subject of the upcoming week, as though all Jean need do is shoot Marco a text, and wait for him to show up at the front door. Squeezing Marco’s hand, soft but calloused from honest work, it occurs to Jean that he doesn’t even know Marco’s phone number. It’s such a basic piece of information to have at hand, but here in this place so far removed from either of their realities, standard methods of communication hold little to no water. It’s an anti-epiphany if Jean has ever received one, and he suddenly finds himself forced to acquiesce to the inevitable truth.

It’s not that he doesn’t deserve to pursue Marco. He’s under no delusion of Marco being perched atop some far-reaching pedestal, and in fact, Jean would prefer nothing more than to stick around and learn more about the ticks and isms that comprise the man he’s being allowed to feel up from top to bottom.

The issue, he realizes, is the sticking around.

Where Jean is in no position to step out on his family, he imagines that after a year away Marco will be heading back to his own family in somewhat the same way. Regardless of what comes next for Marco, the fact remains that Jean is not one for going back on promises made to the dead. For all his misgivings, he’s got no reservation about where in his life he is meant to be. Harvard has never been any kind of ball and chain, and Jean is not about to start viewing it as one now.

It does raise one question worth bearing, however, when Jean cannot help but equate his certainty of his predetermined path in life, and his ability to see Marco having a place in it.

The fact is, good things do not—cannot—always remain. Knowing that, Jean takes the night at face value while holding a small torch of hope in the back of his mind that somewhere down the road will prove this to not be the end.

Massaging the back of Jean’s head, Marco leans forward in silent suggestion. Jean follows suit and lays back, pausing but not stopping when Marco shifts above him and moves to unfasten his belt. As quickly as the gesture is offered, Jean leans into the touch, and lets go of a sigh when Marco’s hand gently tightens around his still hardening erection.

“Jean?”

“Mm.” His hands are frozen at the hem of Marco’s shirt, his once willing and pliant body contradicting what his heart and mind are still desperately rooting for. It occurs to Jean at the least opportune time that maybe this isn’t _exactly_ what he wants.

“You’re fine.” He stutters, “Marco, you’re—you’re good.”

“You sure?”

Leaning upward, Jean answers him in kind with another kiss. Breaking his hands away from Marco’s shirt, he brings them to rest at the small of his back, fingertips edging cautiously, curiously, at Marco’s waistband.

Minutes go by wherein they maintain this frustrated brand of intimacy, the taste of Marco—who has since removed his hand from Jean’s still-persistent arousal—the only thing keeping Jean from addressing the inevitable. There’s no ignoring the intoxicating feeling brought on from the way Marco’s tongue delicately traces along his lips, and Jean allows himself one last indulgent moan before bringing a hand to Marco’s chest. He’s met halfway as Marco obliges him, helping Jean to sit upright while clasping his hand tightly in his own.

“Mmh. Marco…“ Jean doesn’t push his hand away, but laces their fingers together, instead. “I’m going to hate myself for this later, but.”

A frustrating mix of disappointment and understanding dim the light in Marco’s eyes, and Jean becomes certain that he’s learned what utter self-denial feels like as he shakes his head to say no. He brings their clasped hands closer to his own chest, holding on tightly in hopes that Marco understands that Jean is displeased with the choice, even if it is his own.

“You sure?”

“No.” An agitated, unsure laugh climbs from Jean’s throat, and he moves to kiss Marco longer, softer than he had before. “But I _know_ I can’t do this just once with you.”

Marco brings his free arm around Jean’s waist, doing everything he can to bring him closer. Jean lets him, figuring that if this is where it ends, at least he’ll have memorized the feel of Marco’s hands and his unmistaken want of him.

“Is that it?” Hesitation plays at Marco’s voice. “It’s not about anything or anyone else?”

“ _No._ ” It’s difficult to pull away from Marco’s lips, but Jean does so as he vehemently shakes his head, the memory of a certain conversation about their past relationships now fresh on his mind.

“Marco, I don’t want him. I haven’t wanted that relationship for a long time, now.” Despite himself, Jean laughs. “I can be a cranky little shit, but it’s been too long and life is too good since the end of that.”

Sighing, Jean mirrors Marco’s position, and brings his arm around to embrace strong, solid hips. He touches the body beneath his fingers, squeezing gently before continuing on, firm with his words.

“You’re not a one-time kind of thing, Marco.” A weak smile graces Marco’s lips, which Jean can’t help but kiss gently whilst explaining. “I guess what I’m saying is that if I can’t have you more than tonight, I don’t think I can handle having you at all.”

 _There. I said it._ Jean’s breath exhales in a stutter before bringing his mouth to Marco’s neck, trying to ingrain himself with the other’s scent, his taste, all the while not caring if this desperation makes him a hypocrite.

Jean’s affection does not go unreciprocated, and without hesitation Marco deepens their kiss. “Can I ask his name?”

“Reiner.”

“Reiner.” Marco tries it out, but pretense has already soured the name before it even passes his lips. “Reiner’s a fucking idiot.”

At that, Jean smiles big, and the two of them share a kind of dour laughter.

There should be no point left in lying beside one another. Each caress Marco insists laying on Jean’s lips should feel empty, useless. Instead, Jean leaves no kiss unreturned. Languid, peaceful, somewhat morose in where it will inevitably lead, he presses his palm to Marco’s chest and learns the beat of his heart, believing himself content to call it enough.

\--

It’s a rather obtrusive morning for Jean, who made the sound decision to stay out until three in the morning while fully aware of his seven a.m. wakeup call. Holding out for as long as possible, his last taste of Marco comes outside his cabin door, his already packed luggage threatening to topple into the back of his knees when he finds himself once again backed against a wall.

“It’s going to be crazy in the morning.” Marco tells him whilst slipping something into the back of Jean’s pocket. “More hectic than when you boarded.”

It’s not what he wants to hear, and Jean swallows hard. “So I’m not going to see you after this.”

“Not here, no.” His eyes are wet, but Marco smiles for him anyway.  Marco’s hand has yet to move from the back of Jean’s pants, where he offers an affectionate squeeze. “But if you want, you can call me. Or text. E-mail. Or not. Whatever you want.”

Choosing actions over words, Jean stands on his toes, and takes that extra few inches to press his lips to Marco’s forehead.

“’m going to.”

Arms wrap tightly around his waist and Jean follows suit while burying his face in Marco’s neck for what he imagines will be the last act of intimacy he experiences for a very long time.

From the onset, it was understood this kind of goodbye could never be easy, but now Jean stares at Marco and also finds the whole thing somewhat confusing.

Marco’s disappointment is clear, evident both in his sentimental attitude as well as his unwillingness to let Jean go. Still, there’s a kind of cheerfulness in his eyes, and Jean is having trouble placing it. He remembers that Marco himself is nearly finished with his time aboard the Queen Rose; three more sets of passengers and he’ll be on his way back to the same coast Jean also calls home. He forces ugly questions from his mind—unpleasant curiosities nagging at Jean to know if any new passengers will be able to hold Marco’s attention the way he has, or catch his eye.

It’s not where he wants his concentration to be during this final moment between them, so he summons recently established memories to the front of his mind, instead. Moments that belong to the two of them, Jean reminds himself, and it’s enough for a small but authentic smile to light his face. It’s where Marco leaves his last kiss at the corner of Jean’s smiling mouth, their voices mingled in a hushed chorus of thank yous and promises to keep in touch.

Seconds later, Marco pivots away from him, head cast toward the ground as he speed walks away. It’s only as he sighs and draws his arms into his chest that Jean realizes he’s still wearing Marco’s pullover.

\--

“So did you and Marco hook up?”

Hitch’s voice cuts through the hazed miasma that is Jean’s current frame of mind, and all he can really do is stare back at her. Given the sudden sink in his internal maturity level, he’s forced to question if he’s really a fit choice to be manning the row of seats next to their plane’s emergency exit.

“What?”

“The crew guy! He was cute, and nice. And I don’t think he would’ve brought me chicken broth the other day if you two hadn’t been spending all that time together at the end of every night.”

 _Marco is not simply cute. It’s fucking bewildering how gorgeous he is. Second—_ “Hitch, I’m pretty sure crew members are obligated to do nice things for sick little girls on their cruise ships. Even annoying ones who read too much Cosmo.”

Narrowing her eyes, she lowers her voice, lest her mother hears, “How do you know about that?”

Jean reciprocates her actions, challenging her with an even, confident voice. “How do you know about Marco?”

“I didn’t. I was bluffing.”

“Well, you fail, cause nothing happened.”

“So _that’s_ why you’re picking on me. You know, for being a 20-something gay guy, don’t have much fun.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re kind of a prude.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jean slips his hand inside the sequined backpack at his feet, removing the all too aromatic woman’s magazine he knows to be hidden inside. The immense satisfaction he receives in placing it into the flight attendant’s trash bin as she rolls by is enough to sustain him the entire flight home.

“You have no idea.”

Ignoring the inevitable whine about to ring from Hitch’s mouth, Jean leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and prepares for takeoff. It’s all he can do not to acknowledge the fact that somewhere close by, Marco is readying for his final weeks aboard the Queen Rose before embarking onto the next chapter of his life.

 


End file.
